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The Rising Storm

Right now, outside, it’s raining. I can hear the water running off the neighbours roof like a hose splattering water all over the cement. The wind is howling down the street like the slush of an invisible car. It’s colder than it has been all day. That’s not to say it’s cold. Just colder.

I love storms. The wind whipping up a frenzy. The strange colour green of the sky. Like a cloud carrying magic. It could have been the unfurling of a curse. The glow of the hidden arrival of a spaceship. Usually it just brought water. And thunder. And lightning.

I was never a kid who was scared of a storm. I was the one who used to race outside and dance in the rain. Even now, when no one is watching, I still jump into puddles. Sometimes.

I don’t know what it is. There’s an excitement. Potential. A scouring of the old in anticipation of the new. Even in cyclones where trees are uprooted, and houses are flooded. Perhaps I’m mad.

I hate hearing the rain ease. The telltale sign that the storm is over. The last lonely drips of water from the gutters. The clouds melt away to reveal the sky. The sun comes out. The oppressing heat and humidity rise as the water slowly evaporates. The storm is over.

I’ve seen the rescue trucks. I’ve seen the familiar orange suited SES volunteers wielding chainsaws on someone’s crushed in roof. I’ve seen the aftermath of a cyclone. I’ve cleaned mud and slime and rotting garbage from a meter up a wall. I’ve thrown away parts of a flood damaged life. I knew that storms bring destruction and damage and death.

All the same…I like storms.

They are powerful and mighty. Majestic and glorious. They tell me that the world is bigger than me. My problems are not the be all and end all. They remind me that sometimes when the world is at the darkest, and the wind is at its loudest and the water drowns the earth…it will pass. The sun will come out. Life will regain its momentum.